


Flames of Fate

by drpeppapigphd



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Eventual Fluff, Fantasy, Female Lead, Fire, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Game of Thrones - Freeform, Game of Thrones References, Inspired by Game of Thrones, Lord of Light - Freeform, Magic, Multi, Narrative, Protective Sandor Clegane, Red Priestess, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Sandor Clegane Lives, Slow Burn, Strong Female Characters, Sweet Sandor Clegane, War, Witches, strong female character, the hound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:41:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24433738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drpeppapigphd/pseuds/drpeppapigphd
Summary: A Red Priestess finds herself in Winterfell with a man who fears fire...
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 20





	1. Departure

**Author's Note:**

> It makes my day when you leave comments—good or bad [LOL]— so please let me know that you’re reading, how you’re doing, and what you’d like to see next! <3

  
With steam rising up from the dark water in mesmerizing ribbons and drifting off into the lofty ceiling of the bath house, Serason could imagine no place more peaceful than this. It’s never more quiet than early in the morning before the sun has risen, so she always makes a point to get up earlier than her fellow priestesses and take advantage of the stillness. The bath house is in the abbey of what used to be a cathedral to the old gods, one of the only houses of worship that existed for them. People who worshipped the old gods did so—and still do—in godswoods, typically, because that’s where weirwood heart trees are. But three cathedrals were built to protect weirwoods that had grown out of place; in cities, with no surrounding soil to replant them, or in areas that were ripped to shreds by battles every few months. 

This former cathedral was built at the edge of Kings Landing, and is now a convent disguised as a school for maidservants, home to dozens of Red Priestesses who serve the Lord of Light. The Sept of Baelor, which is nearby, is the only house of worship allowed to practice openly in King’s Landing, so they had no qualms about the building becoming a training school for orphaned girls. If only they knew what purpose it truly serves. Rising up from the center of the bathing pool is a weirwood tree, its stark white bark and crimson leaves reflect on the water that is pitch black from the pH levels of the soil at its roots. This weirwood tree is unlike any other: it’s on fire. The leaves burn soundlessly, day and night, fueled by the Lord of Light’s presence, but never destroyed. It heats the water, and thus, the steam. 

Serason Sabine has been at this convent since she was orphaned at 13, just shy of being able to marry and too old to be adopted by anyone in King’s Landing. The convent had taken her in, and she had expected to be trained in the role of a maidservant. However, she was quickly asked to make a decision: would she rather sail to the Iron Islands and actually learn to become a maidservant, or stay and join the faith? Twelve years later, she lays in the bath house for what seems like the billionth time—and is still not used to the marvel of the flaming tree. 

Trailing her fingertips across the dark pool, she tries to peer past the surface, looking for signs that her legs are still there under the obsidian liquid. Nothing. Instead, she is greeted by her own reflection, icy blue eyes and jet black hair... a brow that seems to be furrowed so often that it remains in that position, and an otherwise expressionless face. Serason tilts her head back to rest on the stone behind her and clamps her eyes shut, waiting for a sign that it’s her time to leave King’s Landing. As if she could read her protégé’s thoughts, Kinvara appears from the shadows and leans down to hover over Serason’s face. 

“I don’t mean to disturb your Elysian peace, sister,” she whispers. Serason’s eyes open slowly to the familiar sight of her mentor’s face. She says the same thing every morning when she comes to relay orders in the bath, disturbing the peace each and every time, but Serason doesn’t mind. Kinvara is the closest thing she has to family, and she most certainly owes her her life. 

“But I am afraid that I have some important instructions for your departure,” Kinvara discloses quietly. That’s enough to grab anyone’s attention, but especially Serason’s, who jolts up out of her seat and whips around to face her teacher. “Would you like to get dressed first?” 

Serason’s cheeks flush lightly, as she quickly pulls her robe up to cover her damp body. “Yes, please... shall I come to your study when I have made myself presentable?” Kinvara nods in agreement then floats back off into the shadows, the light from the burning tree illuminating her silver hair in its golden glow until she disappears.

Serason leaps out of the bath and quickly dries off. Wringing her hair out over the pool and trying to control her breathing, and not to get her hopes up. “Departure,” she whispers almost silently to herself. Donning her robe, she practically runs back to her chambers. Throwing on the usual red gown and braiding the top half of her hair back from her face, she smooths the skirt and steadies her breath. Today is the day that she finally gets a taste of freedom. 

━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━

“...You leave at dusk. Any questions?” Kinvara’s eyes meet Serason’s since the first time she had started speaking, and she organizes the papers strewn about her mahogany desk, rolling them up into a scroll for her. 

Winterfell. Serason had read about it in books, just like she had read about the frozen tundra beyond the wall, but never imagined that she would get to go there. Eyes twinkling and heart racing, she nods, retrieving the scroll from her master’s hands. 

“Does Sister Melisandre know that I’m coming?” 

“Yes, in fact, I think she was the one who summoned you. You will likely beat her there by a day or two, but The King of the North knows you’re to be expected.” 

“And when am I to return?” Her eyes flit to her feet now, praying that she will get to stay at least a little while. 

“That is for you to decide. You are well-versed in the practices of a Red Priestess now, and I know that you’ve been ready to see some other part of our vast world for some time.” Kinvara’s voice catches in her throat, and she reaches across the desk to take Serason’s hand. “You know that you always have a place here if you want it, but I want you to experience the fullness of the life that our Lord offers his servants.” Serason blinks back tears of her own, touched by her beloved teacher’s words and rare display of affection. 

“Thank you for everything, sister. I will deliver this message and be there to serve when death arrives at the gate.” Standing to leave the room, she squeezes her teacher’s hand once more.

“Go pack, dear sister. You leave us at twilight.” 


	2. A Journey for the Books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serason finally makes it to her destination...

“Thank you, Ser Eoghan,” Serason grins cheerfully at the shriveled old man who was once a knight but has since retired. His leathery skin reflects the wear and tear of war in ways that even he cannot explain, but it’s also tanned from the time he spends in the warm sun of King’s Landing—tending to his horses. He’s provided her with a sleek, dark horse for the journey, when all she had required was a pony at best. 

“My pleasure, my lady. You’ve always been keen on old Ember here,” he remarks kindly, patting the ashen horse on which Serason is mounted. “I’d rather see you keep her than bring her back to King’s Landing... she has been cooped up here all her life and she deserves to see the world. Horses have spirits, you know.” Serason’s eyes well with tears; she knows better than to argue with the man for whom she had been transcribing family records. Years of working on recording his family’s history and helping him read through the scriptures of the Red Priesthood had made them close. She knows that he is also begging her to find freedom, having had the same experience of confinement as the mare.

“Safe travels,” he quips, as Serason reaches out to cradle his face. 

“Our Lord will repay your kindness tenfold.” 

“Aye, I know it to be true, my girl. Good fortune for your journey.” 

Serason takes a deep breath, glances back at the cathedral one more time, then sets her focus on the horizon where the sun is beginning to set. With a click of the tongue, Ember takes off, and the two begin the long journey to Winterfell. 

━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━

After several days of travel, Serason finds herself passing through a small town with a pub and a market. She stops in for drink and a meal, and quickly discovers how out of place she must seem to residents of the village. Clean and elegant, she is clearly no farmhand, and her unusual attire draws its own attention: a floor length gown with long, flowing sleeves and a deep v-cut neckline is made out of heavy crimson satin and fitted tightly to her body. 

The dress alone is enough to garner questions, but it’s the massive, intricate medallion around her neck that is particularly out of place. Polished steel encompasses a dark ruby and is a far cry from being dainty; it is both regal and menacing because there are many rumors about its purpose. Some red priestesses wear them as charms to keep them young, change their appearances, and give them desired abilities. Sister Melisandre, who Serason is meeting at Winterfell, wears hers to conceal her true age and make her disarmingly beautiful. Kinvara’s medallion allows her to read and understand any language that has even been written down, a tremendous asset for a convent that is translating its scriptures for distribution. 

Serason, however, had never charmed hers. She wore it simply because it was a symbol of her faith and wanted to honor the Lord of Light. Others don’t know this, though, and she likes the air of mystery it usually gives her when she walks into a room... like this pub. 

“Hey, miss...” the barkeep shouts several minutes after she walks in the door and the bustling comes to a complete stop. “We don’t allow witches in here. You’ll have to head down the road to The Melting Tavern... they’ll serve any scumbug there.” Serason can feel the heat rising to her face. 

“Ser, my horse needs—“

“I don’t give a flying fuck about your horse, girl. Get out of my pub.” 

“Understood.” 

━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━

Several days later, windbeaten by the wintery climate of the North and exhausted by the cold shoulder she had received at nearly every place she stopped, Serason arrives at the gates of Winterfell. She’s sure that she and Ember must be quite a sight against the fresh-fallen snow—appearing as a streak of red on a black horse from the wall, her crimson cape billowing in the wind. 

“Who are you?” A soldier calls from the lookout above the gate.

“Sister Serason Sabine, Ser... the King of the North is expecting me.” 

“You may enter.” 

Trotting through the gate and then dismounting with relief, Serason’s feet finally make contact with the ground once more; her body aches from days of hard riding, and she desperately wants a bath—but all that will have to wait until she has gotten her bearings. 

“Sister Sabine,” a low, raspy voice calls from a balcony above. She raises her head to find a handsome man with dark, curly hair and a pained face. Jon Snow—exactly as gloriously burdened as Kinvara had described.

“Your highness,” she begins, as he decends the wooden stairs of the fort; curtsying as well as she can manage without her legs giving way beneath her, Serason bows her head beneath the hood of her cloak. 

“Please, call me Jon. We’re grateful that you’ve made the journey, we are in desperate need of your help. Welcome to Winterfell... come.” 

Turning on his heel to ascend the stairs from whence he came, Serason quickly hands Ember off to a kind stablehand and follows after Jon. As she climbs, she makes eye contact with another face that had been described to her in great detail by her mentor: a pale face sporting two moon-like, violet eyes, framed by tendrils of long silver hair—Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons. Serason makes a mental note that she likes the Queen’s confidence and imposing presence, even though it simultaneously intimidates her.

“Your excellency,” Serason murmurs quietly as she curtsies to Daenerys, who reaches out to lightly grasp her arm. 

“Sister Sabine. Welcome.” 

“Please, call me Serason, all of you. I am your friend and ally so I give you permission to forgo any formalities on my behalf.” 

Daenerys and Jon both nod in acknowledgement, then duck inside the war room. As Serason enters, she removes her hood and takes in what she can of the dark room. Tyrion Lannister, whom she had met several times before at the convent, stands beside a large, bald man in smooth, grey robes. Across from him is an older man with graying hair and sharp features; he looks kind but distressed. Then, her breath catches when she locks eyes with a man called The Hound. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you’re liking this so far! I really wanted to build some plot here...


	3. An Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serason meets the War Council at Winterfell and has one particularly heated introduction.

The right side of his face is rough from severe burns sustained from accident that Serason has yet to learn about; dark, heavy brows hover over deep-seated brown eyes—they aren’t furrowed exactly, but they are stern—fixed in a position of seriousness, just like Serason’s. Long, dark waves fall haphazardly around his face like a curtain and meet a dense beard affixed to a powerful jaw. Juxtaposed against the wild beauty of the rest of his features is a scowl that no one could possibly miss. 

Serason finds herself wondering what stirs an anger in him when she realizes that her mouth is hanging open slightly, and quickly snaps her rosy lips shut. He stares back with no reserve, but she can’t tell if he is drinking her in or disgusted by her presence. 

“This is our War Council,” Jon gestures to the small circle of men in the room. He introduces Ser Davos Seaworth, who kisses her knuckles lightly and retreats to his post, and Lord Varys, who quips that he is “delighted to have another mysterious soul in their midst.” Tyrion greets her like an old friend.

“Serason, my dearest, did you ride all the way from Winterfell just to see me?”

“Lord Tyrion,” she chuckles, “I am glad to see you, but not eager enough to make that trip just for a chance to share tea.” They laugh. “I am, however, most delighted that we finally meet under better circumstances.” She trails off, smiling quietly, overcome by memories that she had hoped not to relive for some time. Unfortunately, she relives them every night. Tyrion gives a small nod, then averts his eyes, because he knows all too well what she means. 

“And this,” continues Jon, ignoring the exchange with Tyrion, “is Sandor Clegane, whom you may know as ‘The Hound.’” Sandor rises slowly from his stoop over the tactical table and reaches for Serason’s hand. He kisses her hand lightly and quickly, says nothing, and returns to his stoop. 

Serason’s hand finally rests at her side once more, tickled by The Hound’s beard. Struggling to place his familiar nickname, Serason’s lips purse ever so slightly; they melt into a soft smirk as she surveys the group, then turns to face Jon once more. “I am very glad to meet the War Council and hope to be of service.” 

A beat passes as Jon opens his mouth to speak, but he is cut off by a low rumble from across the room. 

“Are you one of those witches who plays with fire?” 

She realizes that it’s Sandor’s gruff voice speaking, but is interrupted as he continues. 

“I don’t like fire, and I don’t like people who tempt it.” 

“Clegane, Serason is our ally and has been sent to help us. Please don’t scare her into leaving,” says Jon coolly. 

“I think Melisandre has burned enough innocent people for a fucking lifetime,” he scoffs. 

“And I have burned enough evil men for a lifetime,” Daenerys hisses. “We do what we must to protect the ideals that we uphold, Ser Clegane. And right now, Serason is here to help us uphold our ideals of freedom and protecting the living under my eminent reign. To disregard her is to disregard your Queen, which I would strongly advise against.” 

The room falls silent as Sandor bows his head. “Yes, your majesty...” With his sharp apologetic nod in Serason’s direction, Daenerys seems to be appeased. But Serason was not offended. In fact, she shared his sentiments. She had never agreed with channeling the powers of the Lord of Light for evil. She could never let someone burn, even her enemy. Instead of telling him this now, she settles for a stoic bow of the head and smiling eyes. 

“Not to be unwelcoming, m’lady, but we must return to the matter at hand. You may find your lodging downstairs at the end of the hall, last door on the left by the cellar. Should you need anything, ask for Samwell Tarley, Gilly, or the Maester.” Jon bows respectfully as he opens the door to the flurry outside oncemore. Serason returns the bow, nods to the rest of the room, curtsies to the Dragon Queen one last time, and exits swiftly. She moves so quietly that Sandor raises his head to see whether she has truly left; a sinking feeling settles in the pit of his stomach as a pang of regret travels up his chest. 

━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━

Serason fluffs out the blanket that Gilly and Samwell had so kindly helped her find for her cot, and places what little belongings she has on the dresser by the back wall—one of the few pieces of furniture in the room, besides a small desk and chair. Though the room is no more than a closet, she is grateful to be alone. A small fire place crackles with warmth and brings her a sense of normalcy in the frozen tundra. Because there are no windows, she is grateful for its golden glow and the flickering of a few candles, which she is about to blow out. But then, a soft knock sounds at the door.

She crosses the room in a couple of strides and unlatches the door made of raw wood. On the other side is a smiling Gilly, holding another blanket. “I found this in the cupboard, Sister. I thought you might like it since we were only able to find the one earlier.” 

Serason smiles warmly and gently takes the woolen cloth from her hands. “Thank you, my friend. You’ve been most kind to me, and I certainly feel more at home here because of you.”

“Of course, we can’t have you freezing to death after making it all the way here.” 

Serason chuckles, bids Gilly goodnight, and turns to add the blanket to her bed. After only a few minutes, there is another knock at the door. Expecting to see that Gilly had forgotten something and returned, she hurries to open the door once more. Serason is shocked to see Sandor towering over her from just outside the door frame. He has to duck a little so that he can see into the room and sheepishly makes eye contact through his thick brows. 

“Ser Clegane,” Serason curtsies. “Is everything alright?” 

Sandor shifts back and forth on his feet a little, then clears his throat. “Yes, m’lady.” 

“Please, call me Serason.” Her gaze shifts to her feet as she recalls the argument from earlier, and her cheeks flush just enough for him to notice.

“I’ve come to uh... well, it’s just that I said some things earlier that...” he grumbles. 

“Oh, please don’t worry about that, I actually think that I might share many of your unspoken sentiments,” Serason says softly. “I hope that we can become friends, Ser Clegane, if you’ll give me the chance.”

His lips part ever so slightly as shock takes over his face. “Um... okay, as long as you accept my apology, then I suppose everything is... fine.” 

Serason grins and nods assuredly as she follows his line of sight to the hearth. “I’m afraid there is nothing to forgive.”

“You know, I’ve not had a great history with fire.”

“I’m sure that’s very difficult when it’s as cold as it here.” 

Sandor chuckled quietly. “You have no idea.” 

“Fire has hurt me, too,” she whispered, deep in thought. “That’s part of its power. No matter how much pain it causes, we need it to live. The Lord of Light doesn’t taunt us with that power, but He bears it as a torch... as a warning.” 

“I think things that are truly good can’t hurt us,” he murmurs. 

“I think those are the things that can hurt us the most.” When her gaze returns to his face, she realizes that he is no longer looking into the fireplace, but at her. Something glints in his eye as he nods silently, turning away from the door and starting down the hallway. 

As she shuts the door behind him, her chest heaves a sigh. The candles extinguish themselves and she drops to her knees to pray, for the presence of her God is in her midst. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments and let me know how you’re feeling about this so far! :-) Sending love your way during these times...


	4. Beautiful and Painful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting sets an expedition in motion...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are enjoying this so far! Don’t forget to leave your comments to let me know what you’re thinking. :-) Cheers.

_Daenerys wears her anger on her face,_ Serason thinks to herself, watching the queen from across the table. The locks of long silver hair that frame her face look even brighter against the darkening of her violet eyes and reddening cheeks. The white fur cape adorned with silver dragon emblems at each shoulder is a sight to behold, but Daenerys wears it casually, the mark of a true royal. 

“I will not risk another child,” she hisses at Tyrion and Varys, who had just suggested that she fly towards the wall once more to see how far the army of the dead had advanced. 

“Your Majesty, if I may, I’d like to explain—” Varys, begins, but is interrupted by Ser Davos. 

“What if we sent a cavalry?” 

Strange words from a seafaring man still the room into confusion. After several moments of uncomfortable silence, Sandor speaks up. “How would we get close enough to see them without them seeing us in return? The trees are like a wall on their own.” 

“I’m only suggesting a small crew, maybe 4 at most... we know that after what happened last time ...” Davos pauses and averts his eyes from the Khaleesi; “... we know that we can’t get very close. But we can’t send a dragon or a crow, or they’ll seize it. If we can just get close enough to see them and then turn around immediately, maybe we can gauge how long we have to wait on support from the Iron Islands.” 

Daenerys cocks an eyebrow and her gaze bores into the strategy board before her. The small wooden replica of Winterfell seems like a speck on the frozen tundra compared to the wall. Now that the wall has come down, the forest is the only thing protecting it. And after one of the queen’s dragons, Viserion, became an undead slave to the wight walkers, flying over the canopy of fir trees wouldn’t be safe. 

Finally, she speaks “Who would we send?” 

Jon clears his throat; “I will go, your majesty.” Her hand flies to his arm and Serason detects a desperation in her eyes, then realizes: Daenerys loves Jon, fiercely. _I know what that’s like,_ she thinks _. Painful. Beautiful—and painful._   
“And I’ll bring Tormund, Davos, and The Hound.” 

Serason’s eyes flit to Sandor, whom she had been trying not to stare at through the last hour. He acknowledges Jon’s request with a small nod, then, just for a moment, looks right at her with an indecipherable expression. 

“Sister Melisandre is traveling through the woods as we speak, is she not?” Serason asks Tyrion, who has been sheepishly quiet since angering Daenerys... again. 

“She is indeed, m’lady. I hesitate to guess at how that trip is going. She should be arriving in two days or so, but I suspect that we will not see here until three days’ time has passed. She will have to cross the frozen river.” 

Nodding, Serason offers: “I’d like to join the expedition, then, if you’ll allow it. Perhaps we will meet her halfway and I can deliver the information that I’ve brought for her. If I stay here, it will not get to her in time.” 

Jon doesn’t protest, he only bows his head as confirmation. 

“M’lady, it isn’t safe out there,” Varys chides with a pouty lip. 

“I appreciate your concern, Lord Varys,” Serason says with as much confidence as she can muster; “however, I made the journey here all by myself and won’t be alone in the woods.” 

“As you wish,” he bows, backing out of the circle and slowly exits the War Room. 

“We ride at dawn. Until then, pack, prepare, and stay warm.” Jon gives a final nod, as he and the Khaleesi exit swiftly; Serason guesses that they are off to have a heated discussion about Jon’s leaving again. Before she could imagine the interaction any further, she feels a large hand at the small of her back. 

“Do you need any winter gear for your horse?” Sandor asks gruffly. Serason turns to face him. For a moment, she forgets that they’re the only people in the room and gazes up at him for just a little too long. 

“Not that I know of. Ember is a tough old mare and I haven’t much to take, so I won’t need an extra satchel...” she holds Sandor’s gaze, then blushes when she realizes that she had looked a little to intently for two new friends. “Thank you,” she whispers before quickly leaving the room.


	5. Expedition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team begins the journey into the woods.

There’s nothing quite like the chill of a blizzard. It’s the kind of cold you feel in your bones. And as if the cold weren’t enough on its own, the thought of the Night King and his army of dead people approaching is enough to send an icy chill through your veins. Both factors together make for an simultaneous numbness and pain that you can’t describe. 

There stands Serason, Sandor, Jon, Davos, and Tormund... all mounted on horses and bundled up in furs, facing down the forest on the outskirts of Winterfell. Tormund cocks a red eyebrow at Jon, who is staring deep into woods. 

“Once we head in, we must go straight. We cannot get lost, and we do not have time to meander about,” Jon orders. “A blizzard is not ideal for visibility, and considering that is our main objective, I have my doubts about our likelihood of success.” The others bow their heads in silent agreement. “If any of us should die, and the others should live, please try to burn the bodies...” Sandor flinches at that order, but gives another quiet nod. 

His head turns slowly as his eyes meet Serason’s, who gives him just a hint of a smile, hoping that it will send a sense of reassurance that she doesn’t even feel herself. “Ready,” she whispers, and he heaves a sigh. 

Jon clicks his tongue and his horse takes off in a trot towards the tree line. The others follow suit, and stay focused on area ahead of them—but can only see so far, because of the driving snow. Thankfully, the snow slows a little bit, and it becomes easier to see as the canopy of trees grows thicker. 

After hours of riding, it is finally time to stop and rest; the horses must be fed and the team must rest and eat. Serason groans as her feet make contact with ground; the soreness from riding is exaggerated by the intense cold, and she winces as the pain shoots up through her legs. She opens her eyes at the sound of her favorite, gravelly voice—Sandor.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, just a little sore... and nervous... and cold,” Serason chuckles.

Sandor smirks; “I’m never the one to suggest it, but I think a fire is in order.” 

Serason arranges a pile of damp logs that the crew digs out from the snow. 

“It will never light,” says Davos, “they’re too wet.” 

Serason kneels and places her hands on the logs. She whispers a prayer, voice shaky from the cool of the wood on her fingertips. After a minute or so passes, she hears Tormund scoff: “It’s all a waste of time, you know... it’s more likely that a bear would start to sing—” 

He’s interrupted by the logs bursting into flames and Serason hears a collective gasp from the men. 

“There you go, Ser Davos,” Serason snickers, rising to stand. 

“I guess we’ll have to go find some game to make up for our doubts,” he smiles warmly, then he, Jon, and Tormund head off into the woods. Serason is left standing in the snow next to Sandor, who is still staring in amazement at the fire.

“The Lord of Light was kind to us, so I hope that their hunt is, too,” she giggles. “I’m starving.” 

Sandor nods, wrapping an arm around her. “Gods, you’re warm. Are you sure you aren’t the goddess of light and the fire didn’t just come from your fingers?” They both laugh. 

Serason nestles into his furs and clings closely to his torso, barely coming up to the top of his ribs. After a moment, she realizes that they are just standing in the snow holding one another, and it feels like they’ve known each other for ages. As Sandor starts to pull away, Serason grasps at his torso and locks her arms around him. “Stay... please.” 

Serason revels in Sandor’s heartbeat that she can hear with her head to his chest. She finally stops shivering. He clutches her small frame, holding hers to his own, and listens to the sound of her contented breathing. They stay entwined, standing before the fire, until the rest of the party returns. Both are reluctant to tear away, and sit close to one another as they eat the rabbit Tormund cooked on a spit. 

There’s a litany of chatter about who will stand guard until Serason offers. “I’m happy to go first... that means I don’t have to wake up midsleep later on.” She smiles at the men, then faces the woods in the direction they had been heading. Jon, Davos, and Tormund settle down and quickly fall asleep, nestled close to their horses. But Sandor stays up, stubborn as ever. 

“You know you can sleep, right?” Serason chides, leaning against a tree, peering off into the woods. She can feel Sandor’s eyes on her body. 

“I know.” 

After a stretch of comfortable silence, he continues. 

“I’d rather watch you... watching for them. Just to make sure you’re safe.” 

Serason smiles, and turns to face him for just a moment—backlit by the glow of the warm fire—and takes in his face. His eyes glisten in the dark and she can sense him drinking her in. She nods her thanks, then goes back to watching the horizon through the trees. She does feel safe, for the first time since she left the cathedral—and it’s because of him.


	6. Standing Guard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serason shares a painful memory with Sandor...

After a few hours of standing guard, Serason’s mind had wondered from one topic to the next. Now, almost unavoidably, it seems, it has rested on the subject that it always seems to come back to when she has run out of other preoccupations and musings. Almost as if he could hear her thinking, Sandor breaks the eerie quiet of the night. 

“Serason, when you first arrived and you were greeting Lord Tyrion, you mentioned that you were glad to run into him under better circumstances. I know you must have met back in King’s Landing... but what circumstances were you referring to?”

Her eyes dart back and forth between the trees methodically, then she steals a look at Sandor who is clearly exhausted but dutifully maintaining his self-inflicted duty of keeping watch with her. “Aye... we met in King’s Landing several years ago. Much has changed since then.” Her eyes flit back to the dark tree line, as she watches the fog begin to dissipate—a relief to her team.

“I was only 20 or so then, still fairly naive having been kept in the cathedral for most of my adolescent days... I had been summoned to the Red Keep by the Maester who worked with my Master, Sister Kinvara, on a cure for greyscale. I delivered a scroll and on my way out, I ran into this horrifying, cruel young man. He had beady little eyes with no soul behind them and sharp features like a pixie.” 

“Joffrey Baratheon?” Sandor growls through clenched teeth, squeezing his fists in his leather gloves and scowling like the boy king were standing right in front of him. 

“The one and only,” Serason mocks, trying to mask the fear in her voice. “‘You’re my new toy,’ he said to me; assuming that he had mistaken me for a whore, I disagreed with him—perhaps with more disgust in my voice than I should have allowed. Before I knew what had happened, he smacked me across the face, knocking me to the ground. As I tried to get up, he started to kick me;” her voice cracks. “The last thing I can remember before blacking out was Tyrion racing around the corner and practically tackling the little bastard. When I woke up, he was sitting there waiting to make sure that I would be okay. We talked for a few hours until my Master came to retrieve me. Tyrion was kind to me, even though I’m sure it got him in trouble with his nephew...”

Sandor reflects on what she had said, and slowly responds once he has subdued his boiling temper. “Tyrion is a good man and Joffrey is a spoiled brat. It’s rather hard to believe that they’re cut from the same cloth...” Moving from his seat by the fire to join Serason by the tree, he leans on the bark just behind her, and peers over her dark hair into the even darker forest beyond. “I’m sorry that you had to go through that... and I’m angry that anyone would ever dare to hurt you.” 

His words send tingles down Serason’s spine as she feels his arm wrap around her waist. Placing her hand over his own, she presses back into his torso, closing the distance between them. “I can tell that you won’t hurt me, Sandor. I don’t know why I am so confident about this since, in truth, I hardly know you... but I am.” 

“You’re right, lass. I promise to keep you safe. You needn’t worry about Joffrey or any of the other monsters we’ve been hunting.” The low rumble of his voice is comforting, and he feels her small frame relax into his a little bit more.

The snap of a twig nearby sends them both into high alert mode, but they quickly realize that it’s Tormund coming to take his post. His red hair looks even brighter in the light of the fire, and it takes a moment for their hearts to start beating regularly again. 

“I don’t mean to interrupt here, but I’ve got a duty to fulfill,” he says with a wink. 

Serason bows sheepishly, and Sandor lets out a disgruntled murmur about not sneaking up on other people, but they are both grateful to be relieved of their watch. Laying down just feet apart, Serason gazes at Sandor’s serious face as her eyes grow heavy. He smiles at her softly before they both fall quickly into a deep sleep.


	7. Wight Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter arrives at Winterfell, and tragedy ensues...

Before she can piece together what’s happening, Serason is ripped off of the ground by Sandor; as he clamps his free hand over her mouth, she finally registers that Jon—who had been taking his turn on guard—has spotted something among the trees. When she sees it, her heart seems to stop and there’s a ringing in her ears. A lone figure, stumbling slowly through the brush. If it were possible for limbs to hang lifelessly from an animated torso, this would be the proof. 

Its arms swing haphazardly at its sides—one stops at the elbow— and its head lolls around like a child asleep in a chair. It is still far enough away that they can’t make out much definition, but they don’t need to see any more to know for certain what it is: a wight walker. 

The expedition crew stands perfectly still. Sandor is clutching Serason to his frame, and she can feel his chest heaving wildly behind her head—he is panicking, silently. “Now,” Jon orders, as quickly and quietly as he can. Sandor slings Serason into Ember’s saddle like it’s nothing, and speedily mounts Stranger. Davos, Jon, and Tormund climb onto their horses, desperate to save as much time as possible. 

“The fire?” Davos whispers frantically.

“Leave it, it will burn,” Jon commands. 

At that, the crew takes off in a sprint, snow and dirt flying from hooves into the early dusk of morning. No one slows down until it becomes clear that the horses are starting to struggle. Finally having created enough distance between them and the wight, they start to breathe again. No one speaks until they finally reach the tree line in the late evening—seeing Winterfell in the clearing is a tremendous comfort to them all. Serason steals a glance at Sandor as they are finally out in the open again. His head is lowered, deep in thought, and he is fidgeting with the collar of his cloak. 

“Even though we only saw the one wee devil, surely the others aren’t far behind?” Tormund offers, finally breaking the heavy silence created by the deep sense of dread they all feel. 

“I fear that we don’t have long to prepare,” Davos mutters, “if they’re moving as quickly as that... _thing_ was. Only a day’s ride in...” Those words send a cold chill through the crew’s frozen bodies, knowing full well what it means. 

“They’ll be here tonight,” Jon says—out loud—speaking their collective fears into existence. 

━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━

The screams are what Serason will remember most. Not the skeletons climbing over the walls of the fortress; not the fire roaring to life at the hands of Sister Melisandre who had arrived only hours before the siege began; not the clashing of swords... the screaming. Sandor had joined the War Council on the front lines, and she had hugged him tightly before he rushed to the gate. Serason was on the wall with the teams launching flaming catapults out into the darkness, hoping to make contact with the undead and set them ablaze. Now, she is running as fast as her feet will carry her across the courtyard to the Maester’s surgery as several men carry Sandor’s limp body into the room. The screaming in the distance is the soundtrack to this horrific sight; she will remember it forever. 

“Is he breathing?” she asks the Maester as they lay him on top of a large weirwood table.

He peels back a few layers from Sandor’s neck and checks urgently for a pulse. “Aye, and he has a pulse—though it’s faint and slowing by the second.” His gaze meets Serason’s with trepidation; “I fear there is nothing I can do for him now.” 

Looking from the old man’s tired face to Sandor’s serious visage—spattered with mud and blood—she nods softly. “May I be alone with him?” 

The Maester agrees, and has the men carry Sandor’s body into the back room so that he can tend to more wounded soldiers. They place him on a small cot; his legs hang so far off the end that his feet are resting on the ground. Serason kneels next to him on the cold dirt floor, and places her head on his chest. “You’ll have to forgive me for this,” she whispers, and begins a prayer that is her only hope of saving Sandor’s life. 

“Lord of Light, we thank you for the gift of life,” she chants, removing her medallion for the first time since she had put it on so many years ago. “We know that you alone can give it, though any can steal it.” Placing the medallion on Sandor’s chest, she tries to dismiss the thought that it is rising and following so shallowly that it is hardly moving at all. “I have not asked for your blessings on this medallion before, my Lord, but I ask for it now.” Gripping Sandor’s hand with her left, and raising her right above the medallion, she breathes: “The night is dark and full of terrors. The fire is bright and filled with power.” A flame ignites in her palm, and she slowly flips it over so that she is pressing it into the medallion resting on Sandor’s broad torso. “Lord of Light, I pray that you would burn life into the unburnt body of Sandor Clegane. I offer as much of mine up as is necessary to save him, even unto death.” 

The fire in her palm illuminates the medallion and sends a series of sparks flying off in various directions. Her arm grows cold as a deep exhaustion overcomes her; it is one more powerful than she has felt in her lifetime. She watches as the strip of her dark hair hanging in front of her face turns white as snow and she feels her head start to spin. Just as her hand slips from Sandor’s and her body begins to slump toward the ground, she sees his eyes fly open and dart around wildly; he takes in giant gasp of air as he regains consciousness; she loses hers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun...


	8. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Backstreet’s back... alright!

The sting of the cuts on her back are the first thing she can feel; without looking at them, she knows what they are: carvings by the Lord of Light. Swirls and flames around ancient runes—deep cuts that will certainly scar. Kinvara had warned Serason of this... choosing not to charm her medallion would give her the freedom to do what she had done for Sandor, sure. But the life given for life wasn’t so much a transfer of years or youthful vigor: it was literal flesh and blood. While some part of her had been aged—a streak of white hair against her raven locks, and a subtle aching in her bones as if she weren’t as agile as the day before—most of her sacrifice seemed to be in the form of blood. 

Tensing and relaxing her extremities, she can tell that the rest of her senses are returning to her body. She is laying facedown on what she assumes is one of the Maester’s extra cots, with a sheet draped over her legs and up to the base of her spine. Her arms are resting under her head, which is pounding, and she grimaces at the sudden realization that she must have smacked it against the floor when she blacked out. She stirs once again, and hears the low, calming voice of her Sister. 

“Sister Serason... darling, can you hear me?” Melisandre calls to her, trying to draw her out of her heavy stupor. 

Serason winces as she swallows—her throat is dry. Slowly, she is able to open her eyes, brow furrowed as always, and look at the crimson-haired woman. “Sister Melisandre,” she rasps, as her superior is visibly relieved that she has not lost her memory. She passes Serason a stein of ale and cocks an eyebrow. “Drink.” After she has gotten most of it down without choking, Melisandre helps her sit up—cautiously—and she clutches the sheet in front of her bare chest. 

“You know that was a very risky prayer to our Lord, dear girl.” 

“Yes, Sister. I did not think about the consequences until I had already begun... and by then I was too determined to stop.”

“Why didn’t you try to pray without the medallion first?” 

“He was almost dead, so I thought it might be worth it to save the time.” 

“I see,” she nods. “He has been helping me take care of you for the last few days.” 

Serason’s eyes widen as she realizes that she wasn’t just passed out for the night. “How many days has it been since the battle? I assume we won since we’re both still alive.” 

“Yes, we won, though many were lost in the process... You were asleep for 14 days, if we count today. It’s almost time for supper, so I suspect the Maester would count it in his records,” she said with a smile. “I couldn’t let Ser Clegane in here to see you until I was sure that we could put salve on your back without disrupting your breathing... you were hardly breathing at all until the last Holy Day. Once I could tell that you were stable enough, I allowed him to enter.”

“Is he... alright?”

“Better than before the battle, he says,” Melisandre winks at her. “The Lord of Light healed him more than was necessary to treat his wounds from war, but that also means that you had to give more of yourself than you probably intended.” 

“I would have given my whole life for him if that would have suited the Lord, Sister.” 

“I see. Did you owe him a debt?”

“No,” Serason whispered, slipping off into thought. She didn’t owe him a debt, not really. She just knew that she would rather die so he could live than live a life without him. “No, no debt... but I love him, so I would die for him.” 

Melisandre’s crimson eyebrows raise slightly, a rare facial expression from the typically reserved woman. “He sat outside the door every day until I let him in. He would run to find bandages, oil, whatever I asked him for. He slept out there in a chair every night, right on the other side. He’s out there now.” 

Serason’s heart leaps at the knowledge of his proximity. “Sister, I want to see him, but...” She looks down at her body, barely hidden behind the thin sheet that had been protecting her modesty while her back lay exposed. 

“I think I may have a solution. Wait here.” Melisandre exits out the rear entry to the room, silently; she floats like Kinvara, which sends a small pang of homesickness through Serason’s chest. After a while, she begins to wonder whether or not Melisandre is coming back. But when the rear door unlatches, it’s not Melisandre she sees first: it’s Daenerys. 

“Your Majesty,” Serason says, bowing her head as best she can. 

“Dear Sister, I am so glad to see that you have returned to the land of the living.” The Dragon Queen is holding a dress in her arms that is surprisingly thin considering the weather. “Sister Melisandre told me that you would like to remain clothed but that we must avoid covering your back while it heals. This is one of my old dresses from when I first became a Khaleesi. It should cover your front well enough to suit your needs, though you will be cold—I fear there’s no solution to that part.” 

Serason smiles at Daenerys’ wild violet eyes, grateful for her generosity. “Thank you so much, your grace.” Daenerys passes the gown to Melisandre then exits as swiftly and purposefully as she came. “Come, my darling... we shall dress you.” 

The flowing gown is white with a gold metal choker for a halter collar, and a very low back. Luckily, it is just low enough to clear most of her scars while still giving her a sense of some modesty in the front. Melisandre gingerly slips it over Serason’s head and helps her fasten the collar. “There,” she says after straightening the skirt, “much better. Now, would you like to go to supper? You need to eat and build up your strength. The walk to the hall might do you some good as well.”

Serason’s stomach grumbles at the thought of finally getting to eat, but she has one more request. “Sister, before we go to dinner... may I see him?”


	9. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion & a finale...

Melisandre cups Serason’s cheek lightly, her eyes twinkle above the mysterious smile of her closed lips. “Yes, my dear. If you need me, I’ll be dining in the hall.” She turns on her heel and opens the rear door. “Oh, you should know... I suspect he feels the same way, Sister Sabine. Men will rarely offer their feelings freely, so you may have to pry...” With that, she disappears into the dark hallway, shutting the door behind her. 

Serason shuts her eyes, taking several deep breaths, and smoothing out her skirt once more. “Lord of Light, be with me. Make me brave.” Stiff and pained, but grateful to be upright and moving on her own, she shuffles to the front entrance to the room and places a shaking hand on the latch. “Be with me. Please.” Breathing her final prayer and pushing the door open, her eyes fall on a troubled Sandor Clegane; he is sitting in a chair across the hallway from the door, hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He looks up at the sound of the door and is surprised to find Serason as opposed to Melisandre. 

“You’re”—his voice catches in his throat as he stands abruptly and closes the space between them. His hands fly to her upper arms, almost as if he is pinching himself to make sure that it’s not a dream. “I... I wasn’t sure...” 

“Yes, me, too,” she nods, placing her hands on his chest—lightly at first, then clinging to the fabric as she remembers the comfort of contact with him. “And you’re okay?”

He nods, face as serious as ever. “Never better, lass. And if I weren’t afraid of being ungrateful, I might scold you for that stunt I’m told you pulled.” The corner of his mouth turns up as he takes her in. “It is good to see you awake, though... really good, actually.” 

Serason smiles up at him, leaning into him as far as she can. “I’d do it all again, so there’s no point in scolding me for it.” 

“Mmm.” He gives a disapproving grunt, but his left hand trails gingerly up her arm to twist the section of white hair in his fingers. “This suits you.” He slowly turns her around, keeping her close, and inspects her back. “This, however, hurts me... because I know it hurts you.” She can hear the pain in his voice, but focuses on the tenderness underneath. 

“I knew what would happen when I used the amulet, Sandor. I am to blame for this. But now I can heal and you are still here with me.” 

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I wouldn’t let you,” she whispered, turning around to face him again and standing on her tiptoes to reach his face. “Tell me that you’re mine, Sandor, because I’m yours whether you like it or not.” 

“Yours, every day of my life, until death... and maybe beyond that since I can’t deny the presence of the Lord of Light after that event, now can I...” he chuckles. Sandor kisses her softly, his rough hands holding her face tightly, a sense of urgency juxtaposed against his gentle lips. “I never thought a brute like me could love, but you’ve proved me wrong every day since you walked through the door of the War Room,” he murmurs between kisses. 

Serason wraps her arms around his waist, pulling him flush to her and reveling in his warmth. His hands slip from her face down the sides of her neck, brushing down her arms—careful of her back—and wrap around her thighs as he sits back in the wooden chair; he pulls her into his lap so that she is straddling him. Her face is only inches from his—furrowed brow staring back at furrowed brow—and his eyes scan up and down her torso. “So beautiful,” he purrs. “Does this hurt you?” He asks quickly, realizing that the position may be hard on her fragile shape. 

“No, Sandor, please”—she kisses him once more—“let me stay close like this for a moment.” 

His hands and lips roam her body freely as she traces her fingers along the features of his roughened face. “In some ways,” she purrs, “I find it deeply ironic that fire has scarred both of us differently. But then I remember that fire is the root of all passion.” She feels him nod into the crook of her neck, and his snickering tickles against her collarbone. 

“It all comes around.” 

“Is that true for us, too? We’ve both lived lives of service. Do we ever get to rest?” 

“Aye, my love. The war is over and there is nothing else the council can ask of me. I say we leave in a few days for Dorne.” 

“Dorne?” Serason says in surprise; “what’s in Dorne?” 

“Warmth, for one”—both giggle at this because Serason would be shivering in that dress if it weren’t for Sandor’s proximity. “And a new start.” 

“Dorne it is,” she whispers against his forehead. “I’ll follow you anywhere.” 

“I know.” He plants another kiss on her lips, holding her in place by her hips and admiring her face from up close. She is touched by the gentleness of his dark eyes, and presses her nose to his. 

“I love you, Serason, wild as you are.” 

“I love you, too, Sandor... stubborn as you are.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading. Xx As always, check my profile for info about sending requests and please let me know what you think! Be safe and well. Cheers.


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